IT is not down in the books. Dr. Warren's “Birds of Pennsylvania," even, does not mention it; and the learned ornithologists of elsewhere pronounce it a myth. But there are those who have seen it, nevertheless, and not merely once but often; have seen lively, healthy, chattering cat-birds in midwinter, strong enough of wing to have migrated had they so desired. Occasionally there is but one, more frequently there are two, and scarcely less often four or five together, as though a family had elected to remain, even if they must brave a typical old-style winter. Had they known about it, many a migratory bird might have stayed over from autumn until spring, a year ago. There was no dearth of green grass then, nor of active insect life, even in January; but not so now: to-day the river is a broad field of ice, and scarcely a leaf lingers in the sheltered nooks. The greenbrier is a forbidding tangle, offering no shelter from the keen winds that whistle through it; the tall grasses have long been levelled; the bare trees stand stiff and stark against a cold gray sky. It is truly a stout-hearted intruder that dares venture now along the river shore, yet such brave creatures are seldom wanting. No winter's blustering ever daunted the chickadee, nor driving snow-storm frightened the crested tit. Less courageous sparrows and the cardinal red-bird will seek the southside shelters, and you may ramble for miles and hear not even the twitter of a tree-creeper; but let the next day be warmer, the wind come from the south, and all is changed. Then no nook is too exposed, and we shall have not only birds a-plenty, but bird music. At such a time one may look for January cat-birds. They are no stay-at-homes when the valley is filled with winter sunshine. Their dreary dens in the dark cedars are promptly vacated.

I did not think of over-staying summer birds to-day. It was enough to have the nuthatch make merry as it rattled the loose bark of the birches; and a hint of May-days brightened the outlook as pine-finches twittered in the tops of the tall riverside oaks. And then it was a single bird wrought almost a miracle. A cat-bird threaded the tangled maze of underbrush, perched upon a pebble at the water's edge, intently eyed the frost bound ripple that it could not reach, flirted its tail impatiently, and uttered its old-time summer plaint, suggestive of many a long-gone August noontide. A moment more and the bird was gone; but how different that whole day, from the instant of the bird's appearance! It needs but a tiny twig to ripple the flow of placid waters; and but for this casual glimpse of a cat-bird, how monotonous might have proved the current of my thought, rambling on such a day! No, not rambling. It is truer to say, we walk in winter, and ramble in spring; just as one is given to loafing in summer and to taking the world meditatively during autumn's dreamy days.

But walking does not forbid a searching glance, as we leave trees, rocks, and frozen river behind. Even from a car window the world may be seen suggestively. Turning, by mere chance, at the proper moment, I once saw a prong-horned antelope bounding over the prairie, while the train was speeding through Colorado; and again, in Arizona, saw the ground cuckoo or chaparral cock running from the train as rapidly as we were moving from it; yet in neither case did so simple an incident fail to bring back many a bright picture and page after page of many a well-thumbed volume. To walk successfully, every step should give our wits as well as our bodies an impetus. My winter cat-bird, that came and went so quickly, tinged with rosy light the dullest of dull-gray, leaden days. That dreary aspect for which we are prepared at the outset of a walk in winter vanishes into thin air when unlooked-for phenomena become prominent. It becomes a matter now of changed conditions merely, and not the repellent outlook of a dead past; while in ourselves a constant longing for a return of better things gives way to eager anticipation. Pleased with what is, we cease to dwell moodily upon what has been. So it proved with the frozen river. The blue waters glittering in golden sunshine, the rippling shallows hid by the encroaching grass, the trembling shadows of over-arching trees, — these we held dear while summer lasted, but have we nothing left us? The sun shines fitfully to-day, but when the drifting clouds break from his path, how daintily the ice-gorged shore is tinted! Never a bow so brilliant in the sky above as the roseate masses of uplifted ice that bind the river. If in the bright blossoms of early June we see only color, we have it here again: the valley and the river offer us not merely the ruins of more genial seasons, but one that teems with merit of its own. Not even the broad expanse of ice, forbidding as this may seem, is shunned; a white gull even now is searching for open water, and a crow, perched upon drift-wood, calls to his kind that have gathered in the trees along the shore. How wondrously clear is his meaning cry, floating in frosty air! and does it revive, among other birds, the memory of other days? It had scarcely died away before the catbird reappeared and murmured in his old-time way; the gathering finches chirped far more cheerily than before; the tit whistled to the passing wind a clearly defiant note. Call this winter if you choose; shudder at every blast of the cold west wind, and seek the nearest shelter; but in all fairness use no disparaging adjectives.

I have said there was no green thing in my path. True, for a mile or more, but one may turn homeward too soon. It is easy to fail, by a single step, of reaching the great prize of a long day's ramble, but I was not so unfortunate. Beneath the oaks, where the crisp leaves carpeted the frozen turf, prince's-pine grew rankly, and no lustier growth greets the eager botanist even in May.

Its pearly-striped and dark-green leaves had all the freshness of a flower, and I plucked them quite as eagerly.

There is nothing strange in seeing much, even when Nature seems to close the doors upon you. Even if so disposed, she cannot hide all her treasures. And, after all, is it not a misconception upon our part to suppose her back is ever turned, or that she really closes a door upon you? Can the world be dead or sleeping where there are birds, and living, growing plants? Plunge but the tip of your finger in the icy waters and you will realize how chill they are; yet, overturning a little stone, some strange creature darted away and took refuge beneath another sheltering pebble. Even there, where ice-crystals replaced the lush grasses of the past summer, strange forms of life found Nature open-handed; and if such should spurn to hibernate, why should not we be brave enough to laugh at winter even when he frowns?

It is easy to catalogue the doings of a day, and even less laborious to list the objects that, in a brief walk, we pass by; but if they are in nowise suggestive, have we really seen them? About the withered stem should ever linger the ghost of the brilliant blossom. The leafless tree should still cast that shade where in the long June days we were wont to linger. If nothing of this comes of a winter's walk, we have walked in vain. Our limbs may have been exercised, it is true, but what of our wits? He who sees a winter cat-bird, as I saw one to-day, will not be roused to enthusiasm if the bird is but a mere accident, an overstaying thrush, foolhardy rather than wise. As a mere curiosity, the bird is a flat failure; but in the meagre sunshine, that touched with gold the icebound river, this same bird, by its mere presence, clothed every tree with its full complement of leaves; restored the dead grass to a living green; unfolded blossoms upon every shrub. While the bird tarried, the swift flight of the winter wind that rocked the oaks and swept through the valley gave forth no dolorous note; it was but the breath of summer, laden with the melody of many minstrels.